Sticks and Stones
by lightpoint
Summary: Most of Finn's new Resistance comrades welcome him with open arms. Some do not. In fact, they do their worst. But Finn has already experienced the worst that the First Order has to offer. He starts out as persona-non-grata in the Resistance ranks, puts up with literal shit (Sanitation duty...again) and wins everyone over with his spirit, determination, and general badassery.


The first thing that Finn noticed about the Resistance base was the _noise._ It simply wasn't quiet, even in the middle of the sleep-cycle. The first few days after he woke up in the med-bay with numb legs and an itchy, slowly healing lightsaber wound, he'd wondered if the walls themselves were talking.

Of course, that might have been the drugs. He'd never been administered ipainkillers /i before, and he wasn't sure if he liked it. How was he supposed to know if he was healing?

"Buddy, whatever you're on, I want some," Poe joked, when Finn asked the Black Squadron leader why the ceiling was looking at him funny.

He was ridiculously glad when the pain returned the next day. Pain was good. It meant that your body was talking to you, that you needed to work harder. It was a challenge. Even better, the strange lassitude in his limbs faded, and he was able to talk to the medics.

"I'm better, really!" he told the thin-lipped woman who changed his bandages when they started to smell.

"Quiet," she snapped, pressing roughly on his wound. Finn grinned at the pain. Whatever they were doing back there, it was working.

It wasn't just the med-bay. The corridors were almost perpetually bustling with Resistance personnel, all loudly - _inefficiently_ \- going about their business. Nobody seemed to bother to lower their voice, or quiet their feet, not even around the officers. So when a cluster of techs burst out laughing just as Captain Dalton rounded the corner, Finn snapped to attention, praying that they'd follow suit. Strangely, everyone stared at _him_ , not the techs.

The Captain paused in front of him, leaning in close.

"Missing Starkiller, buckethead?"

The techs snickered. One of them whispered something in his mate's ear, setting off another round of laughter. Finn hoped that the warm feeling swelling in his chest wasn't visible on his face.

Maybe it was. Captain Dalton pursed his lips, looking rather confused.

"At ease, soldier."

Finn dropped into parade rest. The officer left, shaking his head. Finn headed to the supply room with a spring in his step.

The mess hall was another new experience. 'Official' meals were served four times daily, to account for those on the night watch, but it was open for the entire standard day-cycle, so everyone tended to just go and sit and talk and eat whenever they had a few spare minutes. It was _glorious._ Food had always been an input/output concept for Finn. You needed it to live. It was fuel, and things got painful if you didn't get any.

Once, an officer fresh out of the Academy had been handed Finn's unit to 'get his feet wet.' The officer forgot to order FNs 2181 – 2188 to eat for five days. Which meant that at 1700 they sat in their armor for ten minutes while the rest of the unit swallowed down their protein blocks in cold, efficient silence.

FN-2181 barely made it to her rack on the third day, and did not get up again. On the fourth day, FN-2182 dropped during dawn training. By the fifth day, Finn could barely stand. When the mistake was discovered, and the officer realized that none of them could keep solid food down, they were sent to med bay and fed liquid rations through the nose. Finn still remembered the tube, and the pain. He wondered if it was actually possible for your stomach to rip itself in half.

But not here. Someone would notice if a Resistance officer forgot something like that.

He ate with Poe, Jess, or Snap when he was off duty, but with the Resistance putting the heat on the First Order in the wake of Starkiller, Black Squadron spent most of its time offworld. Eating with them was always an occasion, no matter what they were eating.

"We're practically breathing vacuum these days," Snap said mournfully through a mouthful of green protein mush. The D'Qar base had just gotten a fresh supply delivery, so there had been a rush on the mess line at lunch – months and months of nutrient tabs and ration bars made _everything_ look good. Finn, recognizing the scent and consistency of the glop steaming behind the counter, had jokingly asked the pilot in front of him which factory the Resistance had hit. The Togruta had all but growled in his face, and muttered something to the mess sergeant. Three ground troops on mess duty appeared, and hustled Finn to the back of the line – all the fresh stuff was gone by the time he reached the front again.

They'd still fed him, though. Finn patted his stomach contentedly. The stuff went down just the way he remembered.

"You can't breathe vacuum. It's _vacuum._ Move over Dameron." Jess squeezed in between Snap and Poe, a tray of food in each hand. "Here," she said, nudging a tray towards Finn. "Those assholes shafted him again," she muttered in Poe's ear.

"They were out of the green stuff," said Finn, shrugging. The server had dropped his tray right after filling it. Luckily, they'd managed to scrape up most of it before the sanitation droid burned it off the floor. And since it was some form of lab-grown, rehydrated fiber-carb, its trip to the floor had left it none the worse for wear.

Finn raised his fork hesitantly.

"I already ate," he said. _Two dinners?_

"Eat," said Poe sharply. "You need to get your strength up. I'll be right back." He stood abruptly and headed straight towards the mess sergeant.

Finn dug in. _I'll never get used this this._

Eventually Finn figured out that all the noise wasn't so much lack of discipline as it was the pulse of energy that ran through everyone in the Resistance. They were all volunteers. Many had left comfortable lives behind forever, or the New Republic fleet with General Organa when she could no longer stand by and watch the Empire rise again. They had become deserters. _Like me._

Others didn't have homes to go back to, their town, cities, or planets razed to the ground by the First Order. Regardless of the why, they were all fighting for what they believed in. They'd had a choice. So of course everything they did would be filled with crackling _purpose._ Nobody ever really sat still.

It took him longer to understand that Jess grumbling about getting back-to-back deck duty, and sleeping in her cockpit for days on end was just blowing off steam – resigned annoyance. She wasn't lazy, far from it. Green Company – the infantry unit that Finn was housed with, the only one with open racks – tempered their obvious annoyance with their living situation with easy, if very loud, camaraderie, and a sense of solidarity that reminded Finn of the best moments with his squad.

Finn started to see the order in the middle of the almost-chaos. The cramped barracks – bunks stacked four high, the stacks packed so close there was barely enough space to squeeze between the rows – didn't seem to matter. Everyone moved around each other with practiced ease. The lights went out for the night cycle, and by silent agreement everyone tended to keep the noise down out of respect for everyone with the night watch. The raid siren got everyone up and out with a speed that rivaled the best of the FNs.

These guys were _good_.

Even better, they made the best out of a bad situation. The D'Qar base had been an oil refinery in a past life, so the infrastructure was not really designed for habitation, and the Resistance was, of course on a shoestring budget that was even worse now that the New Republic was, for all intents and purposes, gone. Ventilation was a mystical dream. The barracks were perpetually full of body odor from at least five different species, but everyone went out of their way to shower every chance they got. The sheets were threadbare, but clean. The lockers were rusty, but dust-free. The mattress at the end of his row that somehow got infested with mites was burned in the exercise yard with a great deal of ceremony, the occupant laughing with his squad at his new nickname: Bugs.

It was all a bit rough around the edges, but they got the job done.

So it was only natural that a new cog in their well-oiled machine was going to rub everyone the wrong way.

"Not good enough for you, bucket?" The six soldiers in his row cornered him in the communal shower on his first night in the barracks. He was squinting bemusedly at the ancient water shower fixture. _I must be taking too long._

"No, not at all," he said. "I'll be quick – I just need to figure this thing out."

"Here," said Private Holden. His bunk was directly above Finn, who had wound up in the bottom bunk, about two inches off the floor, and maybe six inches of space above his head – comfortably roomy.

The Twi'lek cranked the dial into the red zone, the other soldiers jumping out of the boiling spray just in time. Finn winced, covered his face with his arm, and lathered up. He was done in under a minute.

"Thanks!" he said, and headed off to the line of air dryers.

Two days later, there was a puddle of engine grease waiting on his blanket and pillow after his watch. He laughed, stripped his bed, dropped the mattress off in the laundry room, and went to sleep on the bare metal.

His bunkmates were very quiet that night.

Finn wasn't exactly thrilled to be on Sanitation duty, but the Green Company commander, Lieutenant Veers, had ordered it.

"It's a dirty job," said Veers. "But somebody's got to do it. Building 7 has water pressure problems. We think it's the waste disposal pumps in pipeline 4B. Go fix it."

"Yes sir!" he said, climbing into the biohazard suit. "Thank you sir!" Veers, halfway out the door, turned and stared.

"You giving me _attitude,_ bucket?"

"No sir!" said Finn, swallowing dryly. _Force…_ "Thank you for the suit sir!" The older man frowned.

"You're serious," he said, an odd tone in his voice.

"Yes sir. Of course sir." Finn kept his eyes dead ahead and stood as straight as he could in the suit with a fifty-pound air pack on his shoulders.

Veers' jaw clenched.

"Carry on Private," he said, after a long moment. Finn breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

"Yes sir!"

It took some doing, but two biohazard suits later Finn had declogged both pump room 4B (turned out there was an especially aggressive fungus eating the gaskets) and most of the tunnel entirely on his own. A very surprised Lieutenant Veers put in a requisition order for some plastic sealant (to patch the suits) and some transparisteel gaskets. Unfortunately given the current supply-chain disaster (the Hutts and were duking it out with Malastare over pod and swoop racing gambling profits again, grounding most of the Resistance cargo carriers), the pumps had to be manually de-clogged to stop the problem from coming back.

That meant a daily quarter-mile trek 'down the drain', and extremely thorough showers. The oxygen filters in his mask blocked everything physical, but the smell somehow managed to get into his mask.

He never seemed to get clean enough for his bunkmates, though. He hadn't really expected anything else – he and the rest of the Sanitation unit tended to keep to themselves, despite the chemical sterilization showers – FN-2030 eventually lost an eye – that they walked through after every shift. Ironically, the sonics in the Green Company 'fresher worked much better, and he made sure to say so.

"You're saying First Order shit don't stink?" Private Holden had backed him into a corner in an unused supply room. Three Gold Company privates were backing him up, while two Greens watched the door. Finn grinned and leaned back against the wall.

"Sure it does," he said. "You should see _those_ sewers. I usually had three other FNs with me. Took forever. Probably all the fiber tabs."

"Just like home, huh?" Private G'ootn leaned in, teeth snapping next to his ear. Finn frowned.

"This is my home now," he said. All four soldiers turned red.

"Wrong," Holden growled, and grabbed the front of Finn's tunic. The other two closed in. "Watch the door!" He glanced over his shoulder.

Finn took the opening, throwing all his weight forwards and taking the Twi'lek to the ground. He bounced to his feet, hefted G'ootn over his head, and threw him at the two shocked Golds. They went down hard, and stayed down.

"Kriff…"

Finn whirled. The two Greens guarding the door were staring at him with wide eyes. Private Holden moaned, grasping his ribs.

"You ok?" asked Finn, fear spiking through him. He knelt next to the Twi'lek and felt his forehead. "Blink three times." Holden glared, but did as he said.

"Kriff you, bucket." Finn grinned and moved on to G'ootn.

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

All seven of them got written up. Holden and G'ootn accompanied Finn to the pump room the next morning. He gave them the two biohazard suits, wrapped himself in sheet plastic, and reinforced his air filter. Thanks to the regular maintenance, the runoff was barely up to his knees, so he could do without the gear for a few days.

They were new at this after all.

The General never sent all of Green Company out at once. While the Resistance had experienced a sudden rush of recruits in the wake of Hosnia's destruction, they could still not hope to match First Order troops in an all-out ground assault. Instead they were subdivided into groups of a dozen or so, and deployed with similar units from Gold or Blue Company, and picked their battles carefully.

Finn had been bunking with Green for five weeks when he asked if he was going to be assigned to a unit. He stood at stiff attention in Lieutenant Veers' office for a long time.

"Your combat skills are still being assessed," Veers said finally. "It is important that we place you with a unit that is suited to your skills. Sometimes it takes a while to find a good…fit."

"Yes sir," said Finn, his heart sinking. "Permission to resume duty, sir?"

"Sit down Private," said Veers suddenly. Finn sat in the chair in front of the Lieutenant's rickety, but flawlessly organized desk.

"Private Finn," he said slowly. "The Greens are always on the ground. We're the elite. The best of the best. They send us in when shit gets real. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir," said Finn. He believed it. No one would spar with him, but watching the other Greens in the ring had been downright inspiring.

"We won't go into the field if we think we're going to be shot in the back," said Veers bluntly, his eyes hard. Finn went cold.

"No sir," he said slowly. _Oh._

"Your combat evaluation has gone well. We've seen you in the training rooms," he said by way of explanation. "And from what the tech-heads could find about your record, you are one of the best men the First Order has ever produced. So you understand if some of us are having a hard time understanding why you deserted." Finn swallowed hard.

"I'm not a spy. Sir."

"General Organa has vouched for you," said Veers. "Starkiller would still be out there if it wasn't for you. But…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "A lot of people here don't believe in all that Force nonsense. Didn't do Hosnia any good."

Finn said nothing.

"You're going to have to prove it."

"Yes sir," he said.

He had to.

Finn got his chance. A few weeks later the First Order scraped together enough TIEs and light cruisers to blast their way through the system defenses. He was out of his bunk and on the ground within seconds. He jumped into the controlled chaos at the armory and secured a light armored vest and a rifle, right behind G'ootn.

"Ready, buckethead?" he said. And tossed Finn a helmet.

The Greens formed up in the maintenance yard, Lieutenant Veers somehow roaring orders over the deafening scream of TIEs and super-orbit turbolaser fire.

"Bugs! Groot! Bucket! Hare! Flank left! Stay low! Hit them on my mark!"

"YES SIR!"

Bugs took point, waving G'ootn and Holden 'the Hare' to his left, and kept Finn two paces to his right. They bobbed and weaved, senses on fire, eyes scanning the burning fields for a glint of white. They went over the compound wall and roared down the slope, an AT-ST and a small cluster of Stormtroopers in their sights.

Finn's training took over when they hit the open ground. A distant corner of his mind registered how strange it was to be seeing a defensive formation from this side of the battlefield. But he knew where the weak spots were. Phasma had been about to put him forward for promotion, after all…

"Left-center mark!" he yelled at Holden, dropping to his belly as blaster fire scorched the air where his head had been a second before. "Hit the blind!" _Alpha-square formation, weak on the side, always watch the flanks…_

The Hare dropped to his knees, took aim, and fired. The formation broke, leaving a direct line to the AT-ST.

"Come on!" yelled Bugs. G'ootn whooped and armed a thermal detonator. "Watch his six!"

Finn and Holden used a burnt-out speeder for cover as Bugs and G'ootn lashed the explosives to the walker. Finn counted in his head as the engine whined, slowly gearing up. _Thirty seconds to full power…_

"Move move move!" he yelled. "It's gonna hit – "

"DOWN!"

They hit the earth as a second wave of Stormtroopers came over the hill.

 _"Kriff,"_ said Holden. The four Greens looked at each other.

"May the Force be with us," said Bugs. They hefted their rifles, and went in.

They held the memorial service on the parade ground at dawn. Thirty-three beings had lost their lives. Finn stood at attention with the Greens and let General Organa's words wash over him. Holden 'the Hare', and Bugs stood stolidly next to him. They watched as G'ootn's shroud caught fire, third from the end in the line of pyres.

 _Shrapnel to the chest. Killed instantly._

Not that the last bit helped.

Back in the barracks, the conversation kept to a low hum. The Greens sat in clusters, Blues and Golds wandering in and out sometimes, passing bottles of whiskey around, remembering.

Finn slid to the ground next to his bunk. G'ootn's bunk was directly across from him. The sheets were still rumpled from his frequent nighttime thrashings, and tendency to fail inspections. A picture of three tiny children was taped to the metal next to the lumpy pillow. Finn wished he knew what to do.

"Why you over here, bucket?"

Holden walked over a flash in his hand, his normally vibrantly green skin looking chalky and pale.

Finn looked away.

"This must be weird to you," said Holden, sliding to the floor. "Seeing faces, and all."

A question, not an accusation.

"I never got used to this," said Finn. "My – "

"Your what?" Holden watched him closely.

"We didn't have names," said Finn. "Not like you do here. The armor can't hide everything, though."

"Like what?"

"This," said Finn, pointing at G'ootn's bunk.

There was a long silence.

"Who'd you lose?"

 _TRAITOR!_

"Nines," Finn said quietly. "We called him Nines. I think he's dead."

Holden said nothing. He took a long pull from the flask.

"Things happen fast here. Not always time for a funeral," he said. "So we drink to 'em." He wiped his mouth off, and passed Finn the flask.

"We'd leave the bunk empty," said Finn, gripping the flash hard. "They'd usually get replaced before the next cycle, but the new ones always knew. The first night, they left the nameplate blank. We'd cover the mattress with plastic. The new guy slept in the armor. Because the other died in the armor, you know?"

The Twi'lek nodded.

"Then the next day we'd get the number, but he'd keep the armor on for a few days." Finn took a drink. Whatever it was burned all the way down. He passed it back to Holden, who nodded slowly.

"To Nines," said the Hare. "To G'ootn."

"To Nines. To G'ootn."

The next morning he taught Bugs and Hare how a real buckethead breaks a headlock.


End file.
